


Piercing Lullaby

by alxxiis



Series: Slipping on Wicked Thrills [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24817327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alxxiis/pseuds/alxxiis
Summary: Rhiada is approached by someone insisting to know her and finds a connection to the Dark Brotherhood she doesn’t understand.
Series: Slipping on Wicked Thrills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720387
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Do I Know You?

Meaningless conversation. Slurred and pathetic attempts at crass courting. Clinking glasses. Chairs scraping against the floor. Every bit of noise grated on her nerves. Too much. Too loud. Rhiada hated taverns for this very reason.

She’d just finished a job given to her by Ocheeva--kill a nobleman’s bastard and his mother--and planned to begin the journey back to the Sanctuary right after, camping as needed, but the weather’s sudden turn had disrupted her plans. Bitter and wet, Rhiada had been shivering before she even reached the tavern. Despite her dismay, among all the drunken chaos, the tavern offered warmth.

Rhiada sat at a table in the far corner, hot tea in one hand while the other held open the pages of a book, hoping the threat of the academic would keep people from bothering her while she waited for her food. It seemed, however, that one such man was too drunk or simply did not care to pick up on her intent.

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing next to her with just the barest hint of alcohol wafting from him. “Do I know you?”

Without looking up from her book, Rhiada replied flatly, “No.”

He moved and sat in the chair across from her, and she shot her gaze up at him.

“Do you mind?” he asked, pointing at the chair as if he hadn’t just helped himself.

“Actually, I d--”

“I definitely know you from somewhere,” he said.

His bloodshot eyes locked on hers, not searching her face for any inkling as to what drew this familiarity he seemed fixated on, rather his stare remained in place. As if he already had his answer and was merely toying with her. A strange smile crept across his face, and he leaned forward. 

“Ever been to Pell’s Gate?” he asked.

Raising a brow, Rhiada replied, “I can’t say that I have.”

It was a lie: there were very few towns her blade hadn’t yet reached. She had a contract in Pell’s Gate several weeks prior, but she hadn’t been seen... as far as she knew. The only ones aware of her visit were the Sanctuary members, and, of course, Speaker Lucien.

She caught the twitch in his eye and the crack in his smile. 

“You sure?” he pressed.

“Yes.”

Her head tilted as she looked over this man, wondering just what his obsession was with her. She would’ve assumed he simply wanted to take her bed, as is typical when approached by a stranger in a tavern, but the hunger in his face was not one of lust. The longer she stared, the more his mouth twisted into a snarl. She knew this look, she knew it well.

Back straightening in her chair, her fingers drifted toward the dagger on her belt, but the man across from her hissed.

“Don’t.”

Rhiada stopped a moment before returning her hand to the table.

“What do you want?” she asked, her tone clipped.

“I know who you are,” he said, his forced smile now replaced entirely. “I know it was you that killed my wife.”

The assassin stilled in her seat, her face showing little but annoyance, despite the knot in her stomach. Her words remained silent on her tongue, caught behind clenched teeth.

“We’re gonna take a walk,” he said. “You try to run, you try to fight back, I expose you to everyone here.”

“I highly doubt anyone would believe you,” she replied.

He stood from his chair and walked behind hers; she caught sight of his dagger hanging on his belt as he passed her. His hands grabbed the back of her chair and pulled her away from the table, leaning down and whispering in her ear.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sneered. “Shouting that the Dark Brotherhood’s here is enough to cause panic.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her up, though she offered no resistance--she could shout, scream that he was taking her, but the risk of exposing herself was holding her mouth shut. She’d have her chance. She simply needed to wait.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders while his other removed her dagger and placed it on the table.

They left the inn together, his arm remaining tight around her as they passed by a guard who didn’t even look twice at them. The town was small, and it took little time to reach the outskirts where they’d be unheard when things inevitably came to blows. He pulled back his arm and shoved her forward; she stumbled, her foot catching on an overgrown root before she managed to right herself, sending her body to the ground.

“Who did it?” he demanded, stepping up to her as she turned to look up at him.

“You already know,” she hissed.

He grabbed his dagger. “Who. Did. The ritual.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t speak with whoever requests our services. I simply carry out the deed.”

The man’s nostrils flared and the knuckles on the hand holding the dagger turned stark white, clearly unsatisfied with her answer. As his anger consumed him, she launched herself forward, using her body to knock his legs out from under him and send him scrambling to the ground.

“Shit!” he said as his body collided with dirt and stone.

Rhiada rolled and lunged onto him again. Her hands reached for the dagger, but he was quick to pull it away from her while he attempted to throw her off. She grabbed his tunic, her nails tearing through the cheap fabric, and reached back with her other hand before slamming her knuckles into his jaw. 

He let out a grunt and a curse before swinging the blade toward her face; throwing up her arm, Rhiada caught the dagger against her armor, damaging the leather but not breaking skin. Again, she tried grabbing the dagger, grasping his hand with both of hers, but she was thrown off balance as his knee drove into her hip. She slipped forward, her arm dragging along the blade where her armor had already been damaged; warmth pooled under her sleeve, but still she battled for the weapon.

They rolled on the ground as they continued fighting, and despite the numerous blows she managed to land, Rhiada couldn’t gain possession of the dagger. Their breathing heavy, and their strength waning, their fight slowed, but the assassin had him pinned, holding his arms down with her knee and her hands wrapped around his throat. He bucked and kicked, but she held steadfast, until her body suddenly began feeling heavy, weighed down by some invisible, oppressive force. Her knee slipped from his arm, and he reached up, driving the blade into her the gap of her leg’s armor. 

She cried out in pain and instinctively pulled her leg away, taking the dagger with it. Ripping the dagger out with another yelp, she plunged it into the man’s unprotected chest, once, twice, over and over, until her body collapsed.

Rhiada fell to the ground, arms spread and breaths coming in spurts. It’d been so long since she had experienced a true one-on-one fight; she certainly preferred simply dealing death from the shadows, acting as a weapon herself and ending lives before they had a chance to fight back.

Her thoughts slipped away, replaced by an onslaught of sudden panic as her breathing became mere gasps. The suffocating pressure grew stronger, her muscles contracted and spasmed, and her vision wavered. 

“Wha--” Voice barely a whisper.

She’d felt this once before when she was still training with the Dark Brotherhood: members had to understand and truly feel the poisons and enchantments the Brotherhood had developed over the generations, but... these were things kept close, protected by death if needed.

With what little strength remained in her, she lifted the blade. In the center of the cross-guard, barely visible unless one knew to look, a tiny engraved handprint. 


	2. A Gentle Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhiada comes to and finds herself in the care of a familiar Speaker.

Her head bobbed, copper locks feeling as though each strand held stacks of iron, and each dip sent a wave of dizziness through her body. She felt her body moving, the slightest breeze passing over her face and exposed skin; her side pressed against something sturdy and warm. She opened her eyes, blinking a few times; dark, blurred trees filled her vision, and the smell of damp grass carried through her short breaths.

Rhiada craned her neck up, trying to catch sight of what held her; a hooded figure, but she could make out nothing more. She let out a soft groan in an attempt to speak before letting her head fall back, unable to hold it up any longer.

The figure hushed her.

“You’re safe now, my dear assassin,” a soft, raspy voice spoke.

Another weak whimper passed her lips before she slipped back into unconsciousness. 

Her mind conjured images of whorls of warmth wrapping around her skin, pulling her into a tight embrace, and then suddenly giving her to the clutches of chilled air. Cold settled deeper into her body as it was released from the strong arms she’d previously awoke to; she felt bits of weight falling from her body before being replaced by a heavy layer of what felt like fur, lulling her into a state too deep to continue envisioning what might have gone on around her.

How long she remained lost to the pitch dark she didn’t know.

A bright orange glowed through her eyelids and she instinctively turned her head toward it, seeking the warmth it offered. She reached up to rub her eye, instantly regretting the motion as a weighty ache shot through her arm, though it reminded her of the night’s events.

Rhiada, using what little strength she had, slowly put her arm back down, careful to avoid making noise. She turned her neck back and forth, observing her surroundings: a large, embracing bed beneath her, stone walls around her, a fireplace beside her, an armchair with an uncloaked Speaker staring at her with concern swimming in cinnamon eyes while his slim fingers circled the cross-guard of a dagger.

She blinked at him, watching him stand and walk to her, his steps slow and clicking on the stone floor. He stopped next to her and placed the blade on the nightstand before setting his hand over hers.

“You’re safe now, Rhiada,” Lucien said. His hand moved and hovered over the blanket on her thigh. “May I...?”

Quirking a brow, she hesitated before giving an affirmative hum.

He lifted the furs and leaned forward, eyeing where she’d been stabbed, rather she assumed as she still was unable to lift her head properly to look around the blanket. She expected, remembering such an injury, an onslaught of pain to throb through her leg, but she simply felt a dull ache rolling through her body. A soft, strained moan vibrated in her throat as she again attempted to lean forward to see her leg, but a gentle hand placed just on her collarbone stopped her from further exerting herself.

“Remain still,” he said, looking at her like an authoritative Speaker admonishing a new member, yet the same concern she saw earlier swirled in the fire reflecting in his eyes. 

Tentatively, she released a breath, finding it deeper than it had been when she’d been in the forest. She looked at his near-expressionless face, meeting his gaze when he turned to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, returning the blanket.

Rhiada breathed in, smelling embers and cloves as he moved closer.

“I... Heavy,” she said, the struggle to speak evident.

“That is to be expected,” he said with a slight smile. His gaze moved to the dagger. “It does not belong to you.”

“No,” she replied, keeping her gaze on him.

“Regilus Cedaria, the man who attacked you,” Lucien said, “he is not a brother. To have taken it, he must have killed a member, however...” His words trailed off, and a crease formed between his brows. “I’ve not heard of any deceased members missing their Blade of Woe,” he continued.

She tried to follow his line of thought, but her mind still carried a fog that disrupted her own thoughts. Giving up, she settled for simply watching him; the way his lips pressed into a thin line and the glow of the fireplace sunk into shadows beneath his eyes. Vexed, exhausted- his usually stone-like facade cracked and fallen to the floor.

“I believe you were intended to be the next victim,” Lucien said.

Rhiada blinked at him before furrowing her brow, not understanding. She let out a quiet, growl-like noise, and with a great deal of effort, she brought her hands up and rubbed her eyes. The cloud wrapped around her thoughts remained; frustration pulled another grunt from her throat. Her arms fell to her sides, and she looked back up at Lucien who returned her gaze with his brow quirked.

“Calm, sweet Sister.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “Do not exert yourself. Are you in pain?”

“No,” she whispered, releasing a deep breath. “I can’t... I can’t think.”

“It is not required of you at the moment,” he explained. “You are to relax and heal.”

The exasperation must have been evident on her face.

“If you are insistent,” Lucien began, “I can attempt to lift some of the enchantment still affecting your mind.”

Lucien leaned forward, his tied-back hair slipping over his shoulder. He held his hands out on either side of her head, lighting up a pale yellow, blinding her as his fingertips ran across her cheeks and disappeared into her curls. The magicka passed through his fingers and absorbed into her skull; a faint buzz sounded in her ears as his spell coiled around her mind and dipped into her neck. The pleasant sensation released her frustration, and she closed her eyes. As if watching the fog dissipate, she could see her thoughts clearing, growing more coherent as his magic continued healing.

A sudden lapse in the hum forced her eyes open, and she looked at her Speaker whose own eyes were squeezed shut. Strain painted his features and filled his unsteady hands.

“Speaker,” she muttered.

He didn’t seem to hear her.

She reached up, finding it a little easier this time, and wrapped her weak fingers around each of his wrists. 

The touch pulled his attention to her, and he halted his spell after blinking a few times. He sat on the bed next to her; his skin pale, eyes surrounded in a bruise-like purple, and body swaying as his shaking hand ran down his face. Lucien took a deep breath and rested his hands in his lap.

“You’ve exhausted yourself,” she said, her voice stronger.

“It was necessary to ensure your survival,” he replied, offering her a smile. 

“How did you know I was felled?”

Lucien turned from her and looked at a figurine on the mantle. “The Night Mother,” he mused. “I felt her call to me, a plea for help.”

“I thought she only spoke to the Listener,” Rhiada questioned.

“That is correct,” he said. “She did not use words, rather she offered a... sense, a forced instinct. It is difficult to explain, but through her, I knew you were in need of help.”

She hummed in thought, a second question playing on her tongue, but Lucien offered the answer before she could speak.

“I have been following your assignments,” he explained. “I, of course, was not able to discern your exact location on that knowledge alone, but I tracked your movements to the tavern. You did not make it easy,” he added with a light chuckle. “You are rather adept at masking your whereabouts.”

A touch of graciousness passed over her features, tugging a rare smile across her lips. To know the Night Mother acted as a guardian on her behalf, to know the Speaker cared enough to act on the push given to him, even if it had simply been to fulfill the Night Mother’s wishes--it brought her a sense of comfort she’d long-since experienced.

Lucien reached out for the dagger, pulling Rhiada from her thoughts, and resumed twisting it in his hands. 

“It is not often we are forced to remember the strength of this weapon,” he pondered. “It becomes second-nature, using it to deliver souls to our Dread Father. But to think of it turned against our own Brothers and Sisters with the intent to kill...”

“The traitor,” she interrupted, suddenly understanding what Lucien had meant earlier.

His hands paused. “Yes. I believe the traitor had given Cedaria the blade and sent him to kill you. Perhaps it is with a sense of irony that the traitor is killing our Siblings, using our cherished weapon to destroy us.”

Even through his fatigue, Rhiada could see the Speaker’s thoughts turning and dissecting, searching for clues, conjuring plans.

“Speaker,” Rhiada interrupted, a light blush trailing across her cheeks. “Thank you for saving me. Forgive me, but you look to be on the verge of collapsing.”

“I... I will admit I am feeling rather weary,” he said with a sheepish smile, an expression that looked out of place on the Speaker. “If you are feeling well enough to be alone, I will rest a bit. Should you need me, simply speak my name.”

He stood from the bed, taking his warmth and cloves from her side.

“Do you have a second bed?” she asked.

He smiled and grasped her hand. “While I appreciate your concern, you do not need to worry yourself. I will return before long.”

In what she could only assume was a slightly delirious state, Lucien brought her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles before turning and disappearing into the next room.


End file.
